


Sick Day

by caffeinatednightowl, Mirror_Verse



Series: Mirror-Verse [54]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatednightowl/pseuds/caffeinatednightowl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirror_Verse/pseuds/Mirror_Verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is sick. Dean helps him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nekoshojo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekoshojo/gifts).



> doodle by [Nekoshojo.](http://nekoshojo.tumblr.com)

 

 

Cas usually loved mornings. He had always been a bit of a morning person—it was a time to get up and get stuff done while there was still time in the day.

Today though, he burrowed further into the sheets and hated the morning with a burning passion.

He had noticed a bit of a headache the night before when he had been painting, but that headache had spiraled and become nuclear on the morning. His nose was stuffed up, and when he breathed, it came out in a shaky cough. The light filtering through his window made his eyes squint, burning into his retinas, and Cas ducked under the covers, finding sanctuary in the darkness and warmth.

Cas coughed again, his throat rough and raw. His head felt heavy, even as he sunk back into the pillows. _Damn it._

He wheezed, breathing through his mouth, the scratchy exhale sounded like a winded smoker. “Ugh,” he groaned, reaching his hand out to scout out his bedside table. When he found his phone, he pulled it back under the sheets, eyes wincing at the backlit brightness that flashed.

9:32. His shift started in a half-hour. Cas coughed again, drawing in a shaky breath before deciding that nope, he’d rather not go into work just to be sent home for coughing all over the coffees.

With student loans and rent to pay, missing a shift would be a hit, but he didn’t have a choice in this case. Opening up the address book, Cas pressed a button and called Dean.

As usual, Dean picked up on the first ring. “Hey Cas,” he said, sounding slightly groggy—Cas was willing to bed he had woken Dean up. “Don’t worry man, I’ll be there to pick you up—“ There were shuffling sounds in the background as Cas assumed Dean was rushing to put on clothes.

“Not necessary,” Cas wheezed over the phone. “I won’t be going to work today.”

There was a pause on the other line. “Cas, you okay, man?”

“I appear to have a bit of a cold,” Cas coughed again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine—”

“Don’t give me that shit, Cas,” said Dean, the shuffling in the background faster. “Look, I’ve got today off so I’ll—”

“No, don’t—” said Cas, coughing once more. “There’s no need—”

“No buts, Cas. I’m doing this.”

“Dean—”

“I’ll be over in five, all right? Hang in there.” Dean then hung up.

Cas sighed. closing his eyes and accepting that Dean was coming over no matter what he said. He didn’t like worrying him, and didn’t like making a fuss, but he couldn’t deny he didn’t like the idea of Dean taking care of him. It was a nice idea.

Cas called his work and then he must’ve dozed off a bit, because soon he heard the door to his apartment opening and Dean’s voice calling out, “Hey, Cas!”

Cas groaned as the fuzzy feeling of sleep left him, rubbing his eyes. “I’m coming, Dean,” he said in a gravelly voice that didn’t sound his own.

Before he could muster the energy to get up, Dean opened the door to his room; Cas hadn’t locked it the night before. Dean looked slightly more dischevled than usual, as if he had raced right over without even a shower, though Cas must’ve looked worse, given the expression on Dean’s face. “Jeez. You look terrible.”

“ _Thanks,_ ” groaned Cas, sinking back into the pillows. “You didn’t need to come over, Dean.”

“I said don’t worry about it,” said Dean, setting his backpack and his guitar case down on the floor, careful not to knock any of Cas’s paint supplies over. Cas wondered why Dean had brought his guitar, but before he could answer, Dean asked, “Hey, you hungry?”

“No,” Cas pulled the sheets higher up over his head.  “Dean, I don’t—”

“Stop that,” said Dean, sitting down on the corner of the bed. “You’re sick and you need someone to take care of you.” He reached out his hand and placed it over Cas’s forehead—over the general haze, Cas could barely feel Dean’s hand on his head. “Feels like you got a fever. You got any more blankets in a closet or—”

“Dean—” Cas coughed and couldn’t finish the sentence. When the coughing fit finally subsided, Dean was walking back into his room, arms full of blankets Cas knew he got from the linen closet near Chuck’s room.

“Hey, where is that freaky roommate of yours, anyway?” Dean asked, as he spread the blankets out over Cas. Cas finally stopped protesting, sinking back into the pillows and pulling the blankets up to his chin.

“I don’t know,” Cas mumbled, rubbing his stuffy, itchy nose. “Maybe asleep; maybe gone—I never know.”

Dean shrugged, stepping back after making sure Cas was tucked in. “Okay, you’re gonna need some fluids and food. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Cas sighed as Dean left, turning his head over to look at his half-finished painting for his next art class. He wasn’t really sure what it was supposed to be—the idea came to him late one night while he was trying to sleep. It was a view of a small, abandoned church next to a lake, overlooked by the night sky. Overhead where hundreds of falling stars—a beautiful meteor shower, and while it was a peaceful scene, somehow, whenever Cas looked at it, he felt sad, and he didn’t know why.

Dean came back into his room, carrying a large glass of water. “Here,” he said, placing it on Cas’s bedside table. Cas looked away—his throat was so sore that he didn’t think he could swallow anything right now. “Come on,” Dean sighed, like a parent edging on a child. “You need fluids.”

Cas pouted, but he picked up the water glass and drank a little bit all the same. The water felt almost solid and painful against his throat, but he gulped it down, watching Dean smile as he did. When the glass was half-empty he placed it back on the table, breathing heavily through his mouth.

“Good,” smiled Dean. “You hungry?”

“No,” Cas sniffled, burrowing back into the warmth of the covers. “I’m just—”

“You’re tired, right?” said Dean. “Look I’ll—I’ll let you get some sleep. Just—you know, call if you need anything.” Dean picked up his backpack, but left the guitar case. “I’ll be in the kitchen, okay?”

“Okay…” Cas murmured, pulling the blankets over his head. He thought it would be difficult to sleep, with his head pounding and the cough, but he must’ve dozed some, because a harsh coughing fit soon woke him up.

He coughed and coughed and jolted up out of the covers and coughed and couldn’t breathe, and suddenly Dean raced in the room, panicking. “Cas! Hey, Cas, you okay?” He patted Cas on the back, helping  him cough until the fit finally subsided.

Cas heaved, wheezing, breathing hurt and his throat hurt and his head hurt and his nose hurt and everything felt stuffy and fuzzy and then he started shivering.

“Hey, Cas, easy—” said Dean, helping Cas get back into the bed. Cas was shivering so bad he could barely pull the blankets up over him. “Looks like your fever got worse,” Dean was looking at him with pitying eyes, and Cas didn’t like it—he didn’t like Dean worrying about him and Dean mothering him and just _Dean_ and—

“Stop,” Cas moaned. “Don’t like—don’t worry about—”

Dean sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head, dismissing it all. “Cas, maybe I _like_ worrying about you.”

Cas’s eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them to look at Dean from the sweaty pillows. “Don’t—I don’t deserve—”

Dean leaned over, his hands on the bed. “Well, maybe _I_ think you do.”

Cas got quiet then, not really knowing what to say to that. He couldn’t deny that he didn’t kind of appreciate what Dean said…but he didn’t like Dean going to all that trouble, for him, when Dean had himself to worry about. He attempted to swallow those feelings down and only ended up with a sore throat, so Cas just rolled over, facing the wall. “Whatever,” he growled. He heard Dean chuckle behind him.

“Gonna make you some food, okay, Cas?”

“Don’t want any,” Cas grumbled, pulling the sheets over his head.

“Don’t care,” Dean retorted, leaving the room.

Cas floated in a hazy world between wakefulness and sleep. Dean something was cooking in the kitchen—even when his nose was stuffed up, a few smells got through. He could hear the stir of the pot and Dean humming Metallica of Led Zeppelin or whatever to himself.  

When he heard Dean coming back in, Cas’s eyelids fluttered open—he rubbed the crust out of them and lifted his head up to see what Dean brought, but even that hurt—everything just hurt and ached and was sore and he coughed again and shivered and just—ugh—

Dean was carrying a pot of something, smiling as he came back to look at Cas. He sat on the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight, and carefully put the pot down on a potholder on Cas’s bedside table. “Here you go,” Dean grinned. “Dean Winchester Feel-Better special. Tomato rice soup.”

Cas managed to lift up his head that felt like it was three times its size to take a look. His stomach did a flip flop. “I feel sick…”

“You’ll feel better when you have some,” Dean said, picking up a spoon and stirring the soup. “Come on, do I have to do the airplane thing with the spoon?”

Cas pouted. “No,” grabbing the spoon from Dean. The soup was hot, and it slid easily down his throat. Cas supposed it was good, but everything tasted a little funny now that he was sick. Dean was still watching, smiling slightly in anticipation, and Cas knew he had to appease him. “It’s…all right, I guess.”

Dean wasn’t even offended—he just laughed and sat down on the floor. “Try it again when you’re not sick; you’ll love it. It’s Sammy’s favorite whenever he’s sick…our mom used to make it for us.” The smile faded on Dean’s face when he said it, and Cas knew those memories, those awful memories of fire and ash and his mother pleading with him to run still swirled about in Dean’s head.

Unfortunately, another coughing fit kept Cas from saying anything. When he finally hacked up about half a lung, he fell back to the sheets, murmuring, “I think I’m dying…”

Dean sighed, “You’re not dying, Cas,” as if he would speak to a child, before reaching for his guitar.

Cas closed his eyes, everything in his head feeling hazy, but he heard the soft hum of Dean’s guitar over it as Dean plucked a few of the strings before playing softly. Cas heard a few strains of _Hey, Jude_ , before he opened his eyes again. “Dean,” his throat scratched out as he looked up over the sea of blankets. “Why did you come over? You didn’t need to.”

“I did too,” said Dean, without even looking up.

“Why?”

Dean did turn around now, a soft smile on his face. “Because you’d do the same for me.”

Cas could only stare, but after a moment, he nodded and smiled. “Yeah…”.

He wasn’t sure if he was blushing or his face just felt hot in general because of the fever, but with a small smile on his face, despite the cough and the fever and the sore throat and the heavy breathing and the headache and just everything, everything, he fell back to the pillows, and drifted off to sleep, the soft chorus of _Hey Jude_ helping him along the way. 


End file.
